


The Willow Tree

by Coinkydinks



Category: Avengers, Peter Parker/Wade Wilson - Fandom, Slow Burn - Fandom, Spiderman/Deadpool - Fandom, Spiderypool, childhood friends - Fandom, crime - Fandom, superfamily - Fandom, to mortal enemies, to something inbetween
Genre: F/F, Gen, M/M, first crushes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-04-19 09:05:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14233914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coinkydinks/pseuds/Coinkydinks
Summary: "It starts and ends with an invitation to a wedding."Wade Wilson is assigned a new case: to kill New York's friendly neighbourhood Spider-man. There's something familiar about the masked hero, and for the first time Wade hesitates to shoot. What is it about this masked hero that forces old memories to resurface. Memories about a wedding, underneath a willow tree. Wade Wilson has to face his past, in order to save his future -





	1. The Willow Tree

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RittaPokie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RittaPokie/gifts).



> Author's Note: When a story wants to be told, it is not my job as a writer to say it's not "good enough." It's my job to tell it. This is my attempt in allowing myself the space to make mistakes, and forcing myself to write - even if it's utter rubbish.

It started with an invitation, handed out by a little boy, with a missing tooth, a busted knuckle, and brightly, coloured bandages criss crossed on his skinned knees. He was radiant - full of laughter, of life. Everything about him was full in motion. When he laughed, his whole body shuck. When he smiled, you could see his teeth - or lack of, for he had one missing at the front. When he called the other boy’s name - Peter, he announced it to the whole world, as if he was the most important person there.

(To him, he was.)

Peter followed him. Politely, he addressed the couple on the bench - as his Aunt May had taught him to. The boy, having forgot his manners did the same and added a bow in for good measure. Quickly, Peter’s attention was on him. “Wade?”

“I thought for our wedding we should invite then!”

“Why?” and then, remembering his manners once more, added “sorry. I just - I don’t know you.”

“Because they’re old!”

_“Wade!”_

“No - no I mean, they’re the eldest _couple_. They’ve been together for years. “

Peter looked up to the elderly couple, “is that true? Have you been together for years?” the couple exchanged a look and placed their hands on each other's.

“My life didn’t start until she was in it. It feels like we’ve known each other forever-”

“We might as well of.”

“We do everything together. We know everything about the other - even things that the other would never share.”

Wade announced, “Peter and I do too!” his chest puffed out proudly.

Peter smiled down at his feet. “It’s true.” he says, “will you come to our wedding?” he hands the elderly couple a drawing in crayon of two boys, holding hands in front of a tree - underneath, it reads:

**“Wedding at Willo Twee. All are welcum!”**

“We wouldn’t miss it.” they said. While Wade cheered, and chased after a nearby pigeon to ask it to attend, Peter turned to leave before asking, “what are your names?”

“My name is Peggy. Peggy Carter and this is my wife, Angie Carter."

“We’ll see you there, Mrs and Mrs Carter!”

 _ _ _  
  


The boys had finished their rounds earlier on, handing out invitations here and there - for everyone to see. The elderly couple sat in front of the willow tree in recliner chairs, that they retrieved from the car and a small, brown package of handmade sandwiches. The odd, stray dog who now wore mini bow-ties after Wade had wrestled them to the ground, crying out something about "tradition." A box full of kittens that they found in an alleyway, when handing out invitations. A handful of children, who sat with the kittens, and fed them bits of tuna from the elderly couple's sandwiches. Street performers came, to showcase their talent and provide entertainment for the "young couple". Parents stood outside of the ring, looking in curiously at the scene unfolding around them. Both of the boy's parents attended. Wade's adopted father, Logan who stood awkwardly beside Peter's fathers, Tony and Steve Rogers Stark. Each wore a tie, or was handed a chain of daisies.

By the time the sun sets, the young couple stands underneath the willow tree. They vowed, for as long as this willow tree stood they'd be in each other's lives. Wade leaned down, careful, for the daisy crown on his head not to fall and kissed Peter on the cheek. It was a celebration of a new life, that had only just begun. The willow tree's roots had been sewn into the soil, and there, it would stand as a reminder to Peter and Wade to always keep each other close. Their foreheads touched, and for a brief moment there was silence -

An applause broke out from the crowd. Peter and Wade turned around, smiling at them. They had forgotten they were there. For a second - that stretched on to hours, to days, to weeks, to months, to years - it had been them. Just them, underneath the willow tree.


	2. Burn away, ruggard heart.

 

_Ten Years Later..._

 

Life has a cruel way of reminding you that you’re not in control. It takes you by the throat, and on your knees you are forced to watch as it takes everything from you. Everything. Every. God. Damn. Thing. Wade wandered the streets alone. Confused. He touched the scar on the back of his head, to see if it was still there - if all of this was real. That he made it out alive. A small, undeveloped voice in the back of his head, said it would be better for everyone if he wasn’t. After All, it said this was all of his fault. If he hadn’t of gone to the doctor’s he would’ve never of known. He could’ve lived his life, not knowing when he was to die. Not having to think that each time he breathed it could be his last. That each word he said could be the one they remember at his funeral. That he didn’t have to know the color of his casket. Which flowers he wanted to be buried with - sunflowers, like the ones in the back of the fields that Peter and him -  
  
Peter.  
  
He’d never run through fields with Peter again. He’d never see Peter again. He couldn’t face him - not now, not after everything he said. Everything he had done. He had turn his back on him. He ran away. Peter would never forgive him, and Wade could never expect him to.

And now… Wade casts a look towards the sky for answer, to the question that’s been on his mind since the start: Did Peter love him? His heart ached at the thought. To think, he thought, all it took was him to become an experiment, to realise where his heart lied - and would forever be laid to rest. Peter owned his heart and he didn't even realise it. He was the reason he was here: If it wasn’t for him, he would never of trusted Francis. It was selfish of him, really. To want to be in Peter’s life longer - a few more months was all he asked. A week would’ve been enough. Just to hold him. To tell him that he -  
  
Now he’ll never be able to. Even if he lived after today, and the next day, and the day after that he wouldn’t tell him. He couldn’t do that to Peter. To love him, wholeheartedly, and then leave. Again. He had broken his heart once before. Never again.

Even if Peter did love him, what remained of Wade wasn’t enough to fall in love with. It was a broken shell of a person. A shallow reminder of what once was and could’ve been.  It would be better for everyone if he … _hell,_ he couldn’t even say the word die.

He was hurting. He could feel then all - each and every cell in his body, resurrecting from the dead and rising from the bed of burnt skin that covered the whole of his body. Each crawling along him like tiny, red ants, leaving a trail of bites in their wake. The floor rose to meet him, and slowly, he leaned into the alleyway wall. The cold, damp wall was a brief relief to his burning skin. He lowered his head, into his hands. His hair - hah. He forgot about that. He ran his hand along the back of his head. What once was a beautiful crown of golden locks was now gone. He could feel every bump in his skull. Every fracture. The burning sensation stopped. Now it was replaced by a cold numbness that settled at the bottom of his stomach, and ached his bones. His heart slowed down to a steady beat.   
  
_Maybe_ , Wade thought. If he made it out of this… he could see him one last time.

  
Wade couldn’t tell if that was the saddest - or, if not, the most pathetic way to die. To die on a promise that tomorrow will come.


	3. My Whole World

10 Years Later... 

 

Everyone deserves a superhero. At least, that’s what Aunt May says. And Aunt May is right about almost everything. Almost.   
  
Aunt May is in hospital. Peter visits her every day after school. And every day, without fail he brings her flowers. She says it brightens up the room. They exchange stories about their day, and Aunt May will remind him to eat, to drink, and to take a break from studying and Peter will remind her to take her medicines, and to focus on getting better. Don’t worry about him, he says. She smiles, and holds his face in her hands. Looks at him - all of him, as if any second now he’ll disappear, without a trace. She says she’ll always worry about him. It’s her job to.

Everyone deserves a superhero. Aunt May is Peter’s. Before she was admitted into hospital, Aunt May stood over the oven with the little strength she had left and made Peter a weeks worth of meals. She sealed them shut, inside a plastic container and stacked them on top of each other, until they touched the ceiling. An hour later, Peter found her on the floor.

When he ask her why, if she knew that she was ill she waited, until the very last second she said she didn’t want him to go hungry.

 

-.-.-

  
Peter was running late.

He had missed the bus. The boys in his class had waited for him after school, and cornered him in the bathroom. He had been forced out of his sweater. It had stains on it. He hadn’t washed it in weeks. The washing machine was broken. He hadn’t told Aunt May - not yet. He told himself he would, once she was better. That had been weeks ago. Everyday, Peter asks when she’s coming out. Everyday, she smiles, and says “tomorrow!” Peter believes her, less and less each time.

The boys asks the stains are “shit”. Peter doesn’t know how shit would of made it to the front of his shirt, but says nothing. They take his silence for agreement and throw it in the toilet, “where it belongs.” Peter does not leave it there. Aunt May has knitted it for him. It even had mini constellations across the neck, and tiny planets, that orbit around his waist. Peter asked where the Earth was, and Aunt May had smiled, and said that he was her whole world. /  
Now it was wet and heavy. It didn’t smell of Aunt May anymore. Didn’t smell of fresh, banana pancakes in the morning with a hint of almond milk, that faded to wild flowers, freshly picked from the garden and arranged in a vase to be placed on Uncle Ben’s memorial in the living room. It smelt of… well, toilet.  
Peter held it close to his chest. His back to the boys. He didn’t want them to see him cry. The boys laughed, and laughed and all he could do was run. He wasn’t much of a fighter, but he was fast. Fast and small, and ‘far too skinny’ as Aunt May said. He scaled the school fence with ease, and fell in a crouch on the other side. The sweater had been caught in the fence, and tore through the middle. But still, he ran. With what's left of the sweater, he ran. The boys did not follow him. They did not cross the over side of the fence. It was dangerous. So were they.

Peter picked a handful of flowers along the way. They’ve still got their roots attached to clump of dirt but they’ll do. He makes it to the hospital before visiting hours are over. He hides the sweater inside of his bag. Last time, when he arrived with a black eye Aunt May had threatened to stab them with her IV drip.

 

Visiting hour is over. Peter holds out the flowers in front of him, and asks for a vase. The flowers look half dead, and there's dirt all over the floor. His sweater is in his bag, and half of a sleeve is missing. The front is torn. His knees are bleeding. He smiles anyway. The nurse at the desk shakes her head, and smiles fondly at the boy. She lets him in anyway.

There’s a man sat beside Aunt May. He’s holding her hand in his. He looks sad. “With all due respect, Mr. Stark he is my grandson. Not yours. It is my decision whether or not I tell him and -” she breathes in, slowly. Peter’s seen that look before on her face before. It’s the same look she gave Peter when he asked when his parents were coming home. They never did.   
“And I don’t want Peter to know… he’s been through enough, my poor boy. My poor, poor boy. Promise me, Tony. Promise me you’ll look after him when i’m-” but Peter never heard the rest.

Because everyone deserves a superhero. At least, that’s what Aunt May says. And Aunt May is right about almost everything. Almost. But she forgot to mention that even superheros can die.

 


	4. The Grand Entrance

 

Wade had a habit of being at the wrong place, at the wrong time. Take now, for example - Wade was suspended, mid air, by his ankles above a table of ten mobster bosses, all of who looked from their deck of cards in front of them, and the floating, shards of glass in their whiskey to Wade. A moment of silence followed. Wade looked to his left, to a thin, mobster boss, who’s suit look like it wore him, not the other way around. “...Full set, huh?” the mobster bosses groaned, and threw their cards in the middle. Getting to their feet, each removed a weapon of their choice, from knives, as thick as a rhino’s horn, to a loaded rifle taken from the host’s wall.   
The host in question remained seated.    
“Mr. Deadpool, how nice it is for you to join us.” he said. He did not look at Deadpool, choosing to instead take a handful of olives, a few crackers and cheese, and sandwich then together underneath his tongue. 

“The pleasure is all mine,” deadpool said, and tried to bow - but failed, and accepted an awkward lean, and an outstretched arm. “And please, call me Big D. The D stands for my peni-” 

With a lick of a knife Deadpool was cut short. He crashed into the pool table, and it cracked, into two separate halves, down the middle. Save for The Joker, that lied across Deadpool’s face - the irony - there was no show of a game of pool: most of the cards was no kindle to the host’s fire, the bottle of whiskey was no more than a stain on the carpet and the early winnings were everything. Meanwhile, Deadpool was awkwardly wedged in between the pool table - Joker and all, head leaning back to the host who was careful not to let any of Deadpool’s blood stain his new tie. With a click of his fingers, a waiter was at his side and he was pass a small plate, now arranged with all sorts of assortments and was asked to save it for later. The waiter nodded, and removed himself from the room while Deadpool looked for his hand. It had been cut clean off from a piece of glass, and was now attempting to slap away some of the mobster’s hands from the winnings.

The host sighed, tucking in his knife into his sleeve. He was careful not to let any blood stain his shirt, and had lifted a small plate, now arranged with all sorts of assortments to a waiter, who saved it for later.

“Mr. Deadpool, I have asked for you to attend this meeting as a matter of business. Why you thought it was necessary to enter, hours earlier, from the ceiling is beyond me. No matter. Take a seat. This will not take long.”   


Deadpool shook off the shards of glass, and strolled over to the other side of the room, casually stooping down to pick up his hand along the way - you’ll be interest to know that the hand did, in fact have some of earnings clenched in its fist. Enough for at least 50 tacos or more, depending on the toppings. 

The host indicated for a chair to be brought, in which Deadpool ignored and chose to sit down, cross-legged in front of him. He leaned forward, head resting on the back of his hands.    
“What can I say? I like to make an entrance. And I forgot the clocks were meant to be turned forward.”

“You’re four hours early. And it’s the middle of Spring.”

“Anyway. As much as I appreciate the pig’s heart-”   
“You’re welcome.”   
“I’m not quite ready to settle down yet, so i’m afraid your declaration of love was all in vain.”

“Nonsense. That was to get your attention.”

“Well consider my attention… got - gotten? Got.”

“As you can see, I am a well respected man. I have built my empire from the ashes of my father, who had burnt down his opportunities for the sake of a woman.” a waiter came behind him with a silver tray, lined with rolled cigars. The host took one, and lit it in his mouth. He took a drag. “A man’s heart is ruled by two things, Mr. Deadpool: love and fear. My father was a weak man. He allowed love to calm his temperament, and seduce him into an early retirement. That is why, Mr. Deadpool I choose to rule with fear. It has a stronger hold. It seems, however that we have a… parasite, influtrating our network, and leaking information to the police. Several operations have been terminated because of this - this  _ thing _ . I want them dead. And I hear you’re the man for the job.”

A pause. There were always moments like this, eclipsed by the shadow of the past. How far he had let himself fall from that day - that now was a torment of who he once was, or worse, could have been.

He bit down on his cheek. He had to. This was who he was now. This was all he was. A weapon.  
  
“All I need is a name.” 

The host smiled. His fat finger, studded with a row of golden rings flashed at him, tormentingly. He removed a file from beneath the cigars, careful not touch them sealed away in their little, golden case and handed it to Wade. 

“They go by the name of Spiderman.”


	5. To Love or To Lost; it's all the same.

Their drama teacher Mrs. Heckleburn called the class over. She was a stout woman with flaming, red hair that stood on its ends, as if she was being electrocuted by some unseen force, it was a ball of static, and none of her students dared to touch it - no matter how much you dare them to, in fear of being shocked. Layered in a colourful, multi-patterned outfit it wasn’t hard to make her out, in a room full of students, still in the middle of the awkward stage, of coming out of the “emo” phrase, and starting to make sense of who they were as an individual. Or maybe that was just Peter.  
(it was most defiantly just Peter.)  
The theatre room was small, at the end was the stage, made out of old wooden fences that had been built by a group of volunteers. It didn’t match, and was still marked by names ending with the year that it was written in, and the odd love heart with “4ever” underneath it, crossed out over and over again. Around it, there was a few added memes (thanks to Peter and MJ). An arrow pointed directly towards Mrs. Heckleburn, who stood in the centre of the room, that read “you are here.” Mr. Heckleburn said that it adds character. Peter couldn’t agree more. Gwen on the other hand, disagreed - but then again, that could be because he wrote “MACBETH” directly, under her feet where he knew her character, Emilia would be stood when she came to warn Desdemona about her husband Othello, who under the influence of Iago (“Yeah. Blame Iago. It’s not like you’re responsible for your own actions or anything!” the - suddenly, now living - corpse of Desdemona had said, on the final night of rehearsal.) plans to murder Desdemona, played - you guessed it - by MJ. After MJ’s outburst, Mr. Heckleburn was “struck-” (earning a few giggles from her students) “by inspiration.” since, Desdemona has rose from the bed and with her last breath escaping her, confesses her undying love for Emilia.  
Mrs. Heckleburn called it a “modern twist,” and Johnny - playing Othello - is then escorted off stage by the guards, screaming about how Desdemona “belonged” to him - needless to say, he’s booed off every night. The curtain falls on the two, lesbian lovers as they share their first and only kiss. And then Emilia goes on a murderous rampage.  
Basically, it’s better than the original.  
Closing her eyes, Mrs. Heckleburn’s raises her arm; the row of bracelets clink together, from where she rests her hand on top of her head, leaned back. “Oh misery!” she cries, opening one, single eye to look at her students who fail to hear her. She sighs. “Ahem… I said… OH MISERY!” she says, a little louder. The students look from one to the other in confusion, and slowly, their conversation falls to a soft murmur among the circle. “Thank you. Now, for your homework-” the murmurs immediately rise. Mrs. Heckleburn continues, unfazed. “For your homework” she repeats, “answer me this: Desdemona is the tragic victim of the play; from the beginning, she is fated for death. But if you had the choice: to die at the end of a blade, by the hands of your lover, the person you most trusted or to be the one to hold the handle, which would you choose?” The class falls silent. “That is all. You are dismissed.” the class fall into their own, separate circle of friends, and head out of the door. Peter remains stood, staring at the back of Mrs. Heckleburn who does not notice him, or how he immediately tensions as the idea of lovers, caught in the middle of a story, that ends with then dead; or how he tries to swallow back a sob, that threatens to break the soft, murmur of conversation that strains over the classroom as he tries to remind himself that it’s a play, a work of fiction. Such a thing as fate does not exist. If it did… he wouldn’t of left.  
The noise is drowned out by his own thoughts, a single question in mind: Which end of the sword would you rather be at? At the end of the blade, throat poised; love, replaced by hate in your lover’s eyes or at the hilt, the one and only witness to the trust that flickers like a candle’s flame caught in the wind.  
Hopefully, he’d never have to find out.  
“Peter? Come on! What’s the hold up?” MJ asked from where she was stood, leaning against the door with Gwen and Johnny both flanked at her side. He smiled. He soon fell into line, in the middle of them. Each of their arms interlinked. A silent, reassuring presence. They made a good team, he thought, catching their reflection in a window; each of them, so different, and yet, they wouldn’t be complete without the other.  
“So, birthday boy. What’s in stall for tonight?” Johnny asked. He had the same, massive grin on his face as he always did when there was talk of a party.  
"Er, well Tony is throwing a birthday party for me..." he said, earning a "yes!" from Johnny.  
"You don't sound too thrilled about it." Gwen said, looking at him side-ways with her usual look of concern.  
Peter shrugged. "It's nothing, I guess. I just. I'm not a fan of celebrations."  
Gwen laughed, "What? Even weddings?" and stopped, immediately noticing how Peter tensed.  
"Especially weddings" he mumbled.  
Sensing the tension MJ interrupted with a sudden burst of laughter, "Well then!" she said, throwing up her arms, "that's you off the guest list."  
"Sorry Gwen," she added with a wink. Gwen blushed, ducking her head down.  
"Doesn't ma- shut up! Peter. You'll have a great time. I guarantee it." she presses her hand on his arm, and smiles up at him reassuringly. "we'll be there every step of the way."

(But they weren’t.)

Slowly, they fell apart; arms unlocked, and farewells were said. Peter was distracted by the arrival of a sleek, black car arriving outside of the school’s gates.  
Rhodey exited the car, walked over to the passenger door and opened it. “Mr. Parker Stark.” he said, with a mock bow. He always included the Parker. “Your chariot awaits.”  
“Thanks, Uncle Rhodey.” Peter smiled - or tried to. His stomach twisted into a knot full of nerves. He knew, the moment he was home that he’d had to fulfil the role of Tony’s son, and he was, in every sense of the word. Only, there was many sides to that; there was the side that the media saw - ached for, even - of the lost, orphan boy, who had no family to turn to in his most dire moment of need, and like Cinderella herself was whisked away by Prince Charming. Only the Prince was Tony Stark, who’s more sarcastic than charming, and not to mention dad - but still, the media ate it up, and are never satisfied with their fill. They always wanted more. More, more, more. Steve renamed them vultures; they’d pick and pick, until there was nothing left. And their ever-watching eyes are always on Peter. The media loved him. “From rags to riches!” the headlines would read, and there he was, stood at Tony’s side. Always smiling. Tonight, Peter was to shake hands, greet the guests, and by the end of the night thank everyone for attending… even though he’d rather order a Chinese, and sit in his PJs and mock bad movies with his friends.  
Peter lives many, different lifes, some, unknown to others. Each life has its own name, it’s own category; Peter Parker, a sad, little boy, who still wonders, at every sight of a airplane that flies past if his parents are on it. If, by some miracle, they were still alive. A naïve little boy, who had once been so full of life, they say. Who’d have picnics with Aunt May and Uncle Ben, underneath the willow tree. A boy, who was in love before he knew what love was. Peter P. Stark, who was offered a second chance. A second family. A second home. He, who saw love as nothing more than a chemical, or something to lose. He became distant; he could not afford to lose his heart. Logic. Order. Logic. Order. Installed in his brain like a new programme. Logic. Order. Logic. Order. Spiderman, who was … who was free. Free from his past. Free from the present. Spiderman was the future; he was everything he wanted to be and more.

In a crowd full of thousands, Peter was alone. Lost in the motion of bodies, a blur of colour from all sides. He could not make out a familiar face. Peter willed himself to move - and keep moving, through the crowd of strangers, who called him by his surname. “Mr. Stark!” they’d say, and Peter would smile - as close as he could to bearing his teeth, and biting down on the hands that would push push push. “It’s Peter Stark.” He lost count of the times he had to remind them. It was moments like this when Peter would look beside him, and try to fill in the space with Aunt May or Uncle Ben, and think about what they would say.  
“Well. Isn’t this lively.” That’d be Uncle Ben. Probably. He wouldn’t be caught saying a bad thing about anybody. Always saw the good in everyone, his Aunt would say. Uncle Ben would smile, and remind her that she couldn’t be silenced; if something upset her, you’d know about it. “It’s not a party, unless the food is homemade and the cake is fresh from the oven.” adding, “and where’s Tony? - oh, and low and behold. The devil himself.” she said, with an amused smile. She wouldn’t mean it, of course. She saw him as much as her son as she did Peter. Only he was the one who had to sit on the naughty step.  
The crowd parted in waves; a backdrop, to the circle of family and friends that stood in front of him. “Peter.” A sigh of relief. Peter, for the first time that night, but not the last wondered if Tony had been searching for him too. If, like him all he saw was a crowd full of strangers, when all he wanted was one familiar face. In his hands was a birthday cake, decorated with spider webs. A large, black spider sat on top of it, shooting out a single string of web. “Because you like Spiderman!” he said, moving from one foot to the other. Peter had never seen him so nervous before. He smiled.  
“I love it.” 

The party had come to an end. The last of the guests were escorted - or rather, herded like drunken sheep - out of the tower by security.  
Tony had decided somewhere in between the fire brigade being called, after an power outage when someone (Clint) decided to retrieve his sandal from a powerline, with an inflatable flamingo and the police arriving, because they receive a complaint about a blonde, naked man waving a hammer at the neighbour’s dog, shouting “LOKI! YOU CANNOT FOOL ME, BROTHER!” to retire early, before someone got hurt…again.  
Peter couldn’t agree more. As he made his way upstairs, Tony caught him by the arm and leaned in, and whispered, “you looking more and more like him, everyday.” Peter didn’t have to ask who he meant - he knew. He had noticed it too. He couldn’t look in the mirror anymore, without having the face of his father staring back at him. Peter leaned into Tony, silently asking tell me more, more, more, tell me everything about him; start with the little things.  
Tony kissed him on his forehead, and wished him a goodnight. Steve rose from his seat, and allow Tony to rest his weight on him as they made their way to bed. Steve looked over Tony’s shoulder, smiled at Peter and mouthed, “I'll take care of him. Go to bed. Love you, son.”  
“Love you” Peter mouthed back.

Peter stood in the hallway, now empty. He let his shoulders fall. Breathed. In and out. Not here, he reminded himself. Not now. They were watching. Always watching. He ran into his room, towards the window, but not without grabbing hold of his bag and throwing it over his shoulder. He stood. Staring out to the city, brightly lit underneath the pale moon.  
He hated crowds; surrounded, but entirely alone. When he was young, Peter had search the crowd, looking for his Uncle or Aunt. That night, he realises he still did; still searched, as if they’d raise from the dead, and greet him with open arms. Tony always said he had a overactive imagination. Now, all he searched for was an exit; a door, a window, a rooftop to escape from. Hands on either side of the window, he let his body lean forward; searching - again, always searching - for any signs of life. Nothing. He let his body fall - let loneliness creep up inside of him, and make itself at home, like an unwelcome guest that didn’t know when to leave. It whispered, “they’re gone. They’re gone. Gone. Gone.” and with each, passing floor, Peter let all of his worries go. At the last second, before his body hit the floor, he reverted upwards, and shot out a string of web to the closest building and pulled. His body soared through the air, and for a brief fleeting moment he was free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait.  
> I finished my final exam a couple of weeks ago, and after that my laptop broke... to make up for it, I wrote a longer chapter then usual. Enjoy! Leave a comment below to let me know what you think.


	6. Dancing among city lights

Standing there, Wade could feel an absence. One he could not, if he wanted to, describe; it as if he was stood where once there was a ghost; a memory of a lost love, that was now a touch away from surfacing his memory; the memory, framed in the soft glow of childhood, of innocence; of what was once, and could’ve been before his life was divided into two, separated: before and after the incident. Before, when he was a child lost to his own fantasies, and sat in the shade on a summer’s day with a boy, whose face was now a blur, and voice could be anyone’s. A boy, whose name still calls out to him: Peter, Peter, Peter. His name was like a lost boat without an anchor, lost at sea; all it could do was let the ocean take it in its hold, and swallow it whole. To let it sink, down to the deepest, depths of Wade’s mind. Still. It remained a float, no matter how much Wade wanted it to sink - this attachment, a thread to his other life before. Before the incident. Before he became life’s little, play thing. Before, when there was hope; when there was brunette boys, and shy, fleeting kisses; when there was the willow tree, and endless possibilities. When he a boy and cancer was a constellation.

 When cancer became a disease; when it was apart of him, Wade started to pray in a God that he didn’t believe in. He’d wish on fallen stars, and blow the heads off of dandelions. He wouldn’t come close to black cats, and would started to avoid the cracks in the middle of the road. He’d salute magpies, and lose track of the amount of times he’d take a short cut because there was a ladder in his way, and he’d had to circle back because he went anti-clockwise, not clockwise. Everything he did became a test of fate. Every win and loss became a finalised decision to what he’d do next. If God was real, he decided, he was a comedian and every joke was at Wade’s expense. Wade wanted to live and now - now he couldn’t die. He was immortal. Forced to walk this Earth knowing, that everyone he came close to was at risk of losing. He wanted to forget. Now his memory was similar to a zoetrope: a revolving drum that had slits on its side and series of cartoons inside that show a slow, progressive phrase of movement, so that when it was turned, they’d look like they’re moving. It was like that, only it wasn’t a series of cartoons but events, that closed around the each other in a swarm of heavy noise, colour and motion. Nothing was clear, nothing - besides a scene, that stood out from the rest. A scene where time seemed to slow down.

 A boy, stood with his back to Wade. He leaned across the metal railing that overlooked the city below; the city stirred, restless in its sleep; the low hum of life called out to the boy, and awaken something within; he stood on the railing, and the city lights danced off of the back off of his skin; he was radiant, lost in a world that wasn’t Wade’s to see. He was intruding; so he thought, when all of a sudden his hand was caught in his, and he was invited in; to stand on the railing, and mistake it for the world. The boy laughed, his foot on Wade’s, and then the other, and Wade danced with him on his feet. This, Wade thought. This had to be Peter. This had to be him, Peter; whose name was the first to be called when he sat, in the alleyway waiting for Death to come.

(he is still waiting.)

 It was moments like these; moments where Wade, foolish enough to think he had time to say it, that he chose to stay silent, and not, for the first time to speak his mind; he had the rest of his life to tell Peter that he was deeply, irretrievably in love with him. Instead, he wrote them in letters, and sealed them shut … he can’t remember where; it is a black, question mark that stands, casting a shadow over his memory; sometimes, it’ll play tricks on him, take shape of a familiar location, and have him run to it; a mirage, moving from one place, to the next. He addressed each letter to him: Peter, who was now a face in crowd full of thousands, blurred into the background; a boy, who lost to the past; who in that moment looked at him as if he could righten all of the wrongs in the world. It was moments like these, where Wade knew, he could never if he wanted to, return to him. This man, who shared his memories, was careless. Oblivious, to what he was to become; this scarred, lost creature that refuses to die. If he did, would he of left sooner? This man, who laughs so easily; if he had known, would he of done what he did next? Would he of let himself dance, among the city lights and, under the illusion that life was full of endless possibilities and Peter was one of them - would he of kiss him? Would Peter of kissed him back?

Wade couldn’t be who he wanted him to be; he couldn’t be this man, now standing in front of him. He was a shell of what was. A memory best forgotten. If he could - if his own memory allowed it, he wouldn’t return to Peter. He was better off not knowing, to live on the rest of his life, thinking him dead; to live out the rest of his life, without Wade by his side and maybe, he’d still believe in happily ever afters, and that such a thing as hope still belonged in a world that had taken Wade away; a world without Wade was surely, he thought, a world that was worth living in. His mere presence alone would soil it; the seeds of a new life would be unearthed, the second Wade made himself known. No. It was better this way. He was not the man Peter had fallen in love with. He died, alone in an alleyway counting the stars above him, and making stories from their constellations. He died, waiting. He lives, still waiting for that moment to come, and steal him away into the next life - a life, unparalleled to the one he’s lived; where the lines don’t blur, and he doesn’t feel like he’s living a lie, for simply surviving; for thinking it best to not return to Peter, and let him lower a coffin that didn’t have a body in. He wanted a life that he could call his own. One he didn’t have to share.

He couldn’t of been missed - he looked. There’s no missing reports. No memoirs. He wasn’t even a trending hashtag on Twitter. There was nothing of his life before. Nothing. Nothing that said he had a family, or a friend, or even a dog. He was dead. Buried, among the lost and best-be-forgotten. Without a name on his gravestone, or a body in a coffin; Wade Wilson had died in the alleyway, catching snowflakes on the back of his tongue. Waiting. Waiting for Death to come and ease his slow, beating heart to a standstill; but his body was a landslide, that didn’t know how to stop, long enough for Death to catch up. When he woke up, he had no recollection of who he was. Where Wade had died, Deadpool had lived on; he rose from the ashes, and promised in this life: he’d wouldn’t be forgotten; by the end of tonight, everyone would know Deadpool is. He’d kill Spiderman - erase him, like he had been. It had been so easy; it would be easier with a spider. No one misses a spider, especially one so close to uncovering a secret; he had a network; a web, he called it, that could be traced back to every crime boss in the city, and to something else - something that Deadpool couldn’t describe - a new kind of darkness, that stirred restless from its slumber; a kind that rose off the city like folds of thunder; it was merciless. Unforgiving. And Spiderman was at heart of it.  
  
Really, it was kinder to kill him now. 

“I’d think I should have a say in that.” a voice. He turned, following the sound but saw nothing; it was lost to the shadows. “Don’t you?” shit. Had he said that - _out loud?_ \- when did he turn into a 80s villain, monologuing his evil pan in front of the enemy?

“Oh, somewhere in between: ‘I have to kill Spiderman - erase him’ and ‘it was kinder to kill him now.’” answered the voice. 

Shit.

Shit, shit -  “shit.” 

“My thoughts exactly.” the voice said. Movement. A flicker of red lost in the blinding lights, that formed an outline of a person; a blaring, shock of red this time, with white sockets, staring back at him. it was spiderman.   
  
And he was smiling. 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
